It's true.. the thought in his head hadn't faded away.
Kizutoro was used to being alone.
Not the kind of alone you brag about—I work better without distractions—but the kind that gnawed at the edges of your life until you stopped noticing it was there. A quiet, constant emptiness that made voices feel like intrusions and company like a liability.
People didn't leave him because of bad luck.
They left because his very presence told them to.
His personality had sharp corners, the kind you didn't see until you cut yourself on them.
He didn't mean to push people away—at least, that's what he told himself. But the truth was that he didn't believe in soft edges. He spoke in blunt force. Acted in lines that cut too deep. And if someone stuck around long enough to endure it, he'd test them again. And again. Until they broke.
Some called it pride. Others called it insecurity. Kizutoro never bothered to correct either.
Because the truth was simpler: he didn't trust anyone to stay.
Even the "highest of bullies" avoided him.
Not out of respect. Not out of fear. But because picking a fight with him wasn't fun. He didn't flinch. Didn't laugh. Didn't react the way a victim was supposed to. He simply stood there, eyes cold, watching, daring them to take it further.
Bullies didn't want someone they couldn't control.
Kizutoro wasn't a target. He was a wall.
A jagged, ugly wall with nothing on the other side.
And maybe that's why the stench in the boy's breath hit so deep.
Because for the first time, Kizutoro wasn't the wall—
—he was the one on the other side of it.
The rumors didn't help either.
They had been buzzing through the Swordsman Corps long before Kizutoro ever laid eyes on the kid.
The kind of rumors you dismiss the first time you hear them, but they crawl back again in someone else's voice, then another, until they stick in your head whether you want them to or not.
A nobody from nowhere.
Pulled from the jaws of death.
Personally trained by Tokagame Takashi.
Kizutoro hadn't believed it at first.
Tokagame didn't waste his time on nobodies.
He didn't even waste his time on somebodies unless they could take a sword strike without pissing themselves.
And yet—there he was.
That same boy, the one Kizutoro had expected to break in minutes, was now sitting on his chest like some screaming, feral animal. The sound wasn't skill. It wasn't technique. It was something raw and ugly that burned the air in his lungs.
Kizutoro had fought seasoned swordsmen, duelists who'd honed their craft for decades, and even a mage who thought he could cleave him in half with a wind blade. None of them had ever made him feel like this—
—like there was something wrong with the air itself.
And that was the problem.
Kizutoro didn't understand him.
Not his movements. Not his eyes.
Tokagame's student.
The title tasted strange even in his thoughts.
What did he see in him?
It wasn't refinement. It wasn't discipline.
Hell, it wasn't even control.
If anything…
…Kizutoro wondered if Tokagame had raised a weapon he couldn't put back in its sheath.
It was in the way the boy moved.
Not the stance—Tokagame's form was there, buried somewhere in the angles of his arms, the twist of his hips—but it was warped, like a sword that had been tempered in fire too hot and come out crooked.
Kizutoro had fought humans his whole life. He knew the rhythm. Even the reckless ones, the untrained, had a certain… pattern. You could read them. Count their steps. Feel where the strike was going before it even began.
Tatsuya didn't have a pattern.
Every strike, every twitch, was jagged and unpredictable, as if something else was pulling the strings. His eyes weren't the eyes of a duelist—they were the eyes of someone who didn't know they were human anymore. The kind of eyes you'd see on a cornered beast, the kind that bit not because it wanted to win, but because losing meant vanishing.
And that was the part Kizutoro couldn't shake.
That stench—the "scent of the devil"—wasn't just power. It was the absence of restraint. It was the death of reason. The kind of thing you didn't fight… you survived. And survival meant knowing, deep down, that you were no longer fighting a person, but something that had slipped loose from the chain holding it to humanity.
The boy screamed again, raw and jagged, the sound scraping against Kizutoro's ears like steel on stone. He felt the weight of him—not just his body, but the thing inside him pressing down like an uninvited shadow.
And for the first time in years, Kizutoro realized he was afraid.
Part 2
Kizutoro had always believed in one simple truth:
Power was a ladder.
You climbed, or you got trampled.
It was a truth he'd carried since the first time he picked up a blade. Since the first time he bled for the right to stand. Every scar on his body was proof of it. Every callus on his hands a rung he'd gripped and refused to let go of.
And he had never—never—let anyone force his head down.
Until now.
Tatsuya's hands were on his collar, knuckles bone-white, arms shaking with some volatile mixture of rage and desperation. His knees dug into Kizutoro's ribs, each breath like a vice squeezing him tighter. That scent—thick, suffocating, like ash and iron and something far older than either of them—still coiled around him, pressing against his lungs.
He could've fought harder. Maybe. But something deep in his instincts screamed otherwise. Every muscle in his body was braced, not for the next blow, but for the possibility that the boy above him might stop holding back.
Because, as much as Tatsuya's movements were unrefined, messy, and raw, there was an awful truth threading through them:
This wasn't the peak. This was just what leaked through the cracks.
Kizutoro swallowed, throat dry. "Enough."
It wasn't a plea. He told himself that. It was a statement. A wall, a line in the dirt that meant you've proved your point. But the word hung in the air with a heaviness that made it feel like something else—like an admission he'd never wanted to make.
Tatsuya didn't stop. Not immediately. His eyes—dark, unfocused, and glinting with something feral—just stared into him, as if weighing whether the fight was over or if Kizutoro's throat was still a viable target.
Kizutoro could hear the low, erratic pant of his breath. Could feel the tremor in the boy's arms. The screaming had stopped, but in a way that was worse—now the silence between them was sharp, dangerous, and loud enough to drown out the ringing in his ears.
"I said…" Kizutoro's voice cracked—not from fear, but from the strain of forcing the words out. "…enough, Tatsuya."
The name seemed to reach him. Tatsuya's grip loosened, fraction by fraction, until the weight on his chest wasn't quite so crushing. But the boy didn't climb off immediately—no, he sat there, gaze still locked, as if waiting for some hidden signal that it was truly over.
Kizutoro exhaled slowly. Not relief. Just air.
"You've… made your point," he said, the words tasting like rust on his tongue. "I'll say it. You beat me."
It was the first time he'd admitted defeat in years. Maybe longer.
And it burned.
But not in the way he thought it would.
The sting wasn't humiliation—it was the sudden, unavoidable shift in the way he saw the boy above him.
The rumors had been one thing. The whispers in the training yard about Tokagame personally taking him in, molding him, training him. The kind of whispers Kizutoro had scoffed at. "So what if the old dragon picked up some stray?" he'd thought. "Doesn't mean the kid's worth anything."
But now, staring up at him, the truth slammed into place.
Tokagame hadn't taken him in because he saw potential. No—Tokagame had taken him in because he recognized a spark that could burn the world down. And instead of smothering it, he'd taught the boy how to breathe.
Kizutoro coughed once, the weight on his ribs reminding him of just how close this had been to crossing into something else entirely. "You're not… like the others," he muttered.
Tatsuya's brow furrowed slightly. "…What?"
Kizutoro's lips pulled into something between a grimace and a smirk. "You fight like you've got nothing to lose. Like every second is the last one you're gonna get. That's not technique—that's… survival."
For a moment, the boy just stared at him, the feral edge in his eyes slowly giving way to something unreadable.
"You've got no polish. No control. You're a mess," Kizutoro continued, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "But…" He let the word hang, heavy and deliberate. "…I'd rather have a mess like you at my back than a dozen clean, shining swordsmen who've never seen the edge of death."
It was as close to respect as he could offer. And the fact that he was offering it at all surprised even him.
Tatsuya's grip finally fell away completely. The pressure on Kizutoro's ribs lifted, replaced by the lingering, ghostly echo of that devil's scent. The boy stood, chest still rising and falling like a man who'd just sprinted through hell.
Kizutoro didn't get up right away. Instead, he stayed there, looking up at the ceiling, letting the weight of what just happened sink in.
In the end, it wasn't that Tatsuya had beaten him.
It was that Tatsuya had changed something.
Somewhere, deep in that fight, Kizutoro had seen the truth—that there was a difference between climbing the ladder and standing on the edge of the abyss. And the boy? He didn't climb. He didn't even care about the ladder. He lived in that abyss.
Kizutoro sat up, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual edge. "Don't waste it, Tatsuya. Whatever it is you've got… don't waste it."
The boy glanced back at him, an expression flickering across his face—something between confusion, suspicion, and the faintest, most reluctant acknowledgement. Then, without a word, he turned and started toward the dorms.
Kizutoro watched him go, rubbing the back of his neck. That scent still clung to him, faint but lingering, like smoke after a fire.
And for the first time, Kizutoro understood why Tokagame had chosen him.
Not because he was the strongest.
Not because he was the smartest.
But because he was the kind of weapon you didn't find—you survived finding.
Kizutoro smirked to himself, shaking his head. "Damn kid," he muttered under his breath. "Guess I'll be keeping an eye on you."
And just like that, the respect was sealed.
The kind forged in the moment when you realize that, given the choice between crossing blades with someone and standing beside them… you'd pick the latter.
Part 3
Tatsuya's fists still trembled. Not from impact, not from exertion—but from the hollow, echoing aftershocks of the scream that had ripped out of his throat. The words lingered in his ears, ugly and raw, like scars that refused to fade.
"What did I do wrong!?"
It rang like a bell in his skull, reverberating until he wanted to claw at his own head just to silence it.
He stood. Or rather, staggered off Kizutoro, his legs shaky, chest heaving like he had run miles even though he had barely moved. His eyes darted around the corridor, expecting others to come rushing in. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No shouts. Only the rasp of his own breathing and the dull throb of his knuckles, untouched by damage, but carrying the phantom sting of failure.
Behind him, Kizutoro didn't lunge. Didn't spit insults. Didn't laugh. He just lay there, silent. That silence… more than anything, unsettled Tatsuya.
Because Kizutoro was a storm. A man who lived for noise, for conflict, for dominance. For him to fall into quiet—that wasn't surrender, was it?
Tatsuya's teeth clenched. His breath burned hot in his lungs.
Why did it feel like I hadn't won anything?
No, that wasn't it. It wasn't about winning. He didn't want to win. He just wanted—just once—for someone to say why. To explain what he had done wrong. To point at the exact thing that made him hated, mocked, pushed to the outside, and just say it. Then maybe he could fix it. Or maybe he couldn't. But at least he wouldn't have to live in this guessing game of knives and whispers.
His feet carried him down the hall, each step heavy, uneven. He didn't even remember choosing to walk—his body just needed to get away, and he obeyed.
The corridor seemed longer than usual, stretching endlessly, lit by the lantern glow that painted his shadow against the walls. He stared at that shadow, distorted and uneven, like a stranger's shape.
"…The scent of the devil," Tatsuya muttered under his breath, his own voice a hoarse rasp.
He didn't know where the phrase came from—whether he had thought it, felt it, or heard it whispered in some half-mad corner of his mind. But it made his stomach twist. His fists tightened until his nails dug into his palms.
If Kizutoro had felt something from him—something wrong, something monstrous—then what did that make me?
Was that the answer? Was that why they hate me?
The thought made him stumble, his foot dragging against the wooden floor. For a moment, he wanted to turn back, to grab Kizutoro by the collar and demand to know what he had seen. What he had felt. But no—he couldn't. If he asked, and Kizutoro confirmed it… if he really said, "Yes, you reek of something inhuman"… then that would be the end of it.
Tatsuya bit his lip until it bled, iron taste flooding his mouth.
Walking on, he pressed his hand against the dorm doorframe when he finally reached it. The wood felt cool under his palm, grounding. But his mind still roiled.
The door clicked shut behind him with a hollow sound, and for a heartbeat, the silence felt almost merciful. Almost.
Then his stomach lurched.
"—gh!"
Tatsuya barely made it to the sink. His hands gripped the edges with a desperation that turned his knuckles white, and his body convulsed before he could even breathe a warning to himself. The taste of bile and acid scorched his throat as he vomited, harsh and ugly, each heave ripping out of him like his body was trying to expel something deeper than food.
The echo of it splattered against porcelain, sharp and humiliating in the cramped space. His eyes burned. His chest clenched so tightly he thought his ribs might shatter from the pressure. He gasped for air, but every breath only set off another wave until nothing came up anymore—nothing but sour saliva and the empty ache of being wrung out like a rag.
Finally, his body sagged forward, his forehead resting against the cool rim of the sink. His hair stuck to his damp face, sweat beading along his temple. His reflection stared back at him from the warped surface of the water swirling down the drain—eyes bloodshot, lips pale, expression hollow.
"…Pathetic."
The word slipped out before he could stop it. His voice cracked, more fragile than he intended, and the sound almost broke him worse than the vomiting had.
Pathetic because he couldn't control his body. Pathetic because a single clash, a single confrontation, had torn him apart inside. Pathetic because even victory left him poisoned with doubt instead of strength.
He wanted to laugh, but nothing came out. Just a weak exhale, shuddering.
Tatsuya splashed water onto his face, but the chill did little to clear away the fog in his head. His reflection blurred with each ripple, a stranger looking back at him, one who wore the scent of something Kizutoro had called devil.
"Respect… surrender… fear…" His words stumbled out in fragments, whispered to the sink, to the room, to no one. "If that's what I am, if that's all I can make people feel, then what's the point…?"
The water kept running, the sound sharp against the fragile quiet.
He turned it off, hands trembling so violently the handle clattered against the metal.
Dragging himself to the bed, he collapsed without even undressing. The room tilted around him, his stomach still roiling, throat raw, body heavy with exhaustion. Yet his mind refused to still.
The memory of Kizutoro's silence haunted him. A silence not of defeat, not of acceptance—but of recognition. As if he had seen something in Tatsuya's outburst, something not even Tatsuya himself could name.
He curled onto his side, clutching the edge of the blanket in his fists like it might anchor him. His eyes squeezed shut, but the darkness only replayed the fight, the scream, the vomit, the silence.
Sleep wouldn't come easily.
But even as his body trembled with the aftershocks, one bitter, fragile thought rooted itself deep inside him.
If Kizutoro—loud, brash, impossible Kizutoro—had chosen not to strike him again, then maybe, just maybe, there was something in him that wasn't entirely wrong.
That tiny, flickering ember of possibility… was all he had left to cling to.
Part 4
The night bled away slowly, as if reluctant to release him.
When Tatsuya finally stirred, his body felt leaden, every muscle stiff from tension and the abuse he'd put it through. His throat burned raw, and a dull ache thrummed behind his eyes.
The mirror above the sink showed a pale ghost of himself: dark crescents beneath his eyes, lips cracked, the faint scent of bile still clinging no matter how many times he rinsed his mouth. He straightened his uniform jacket as best he could, but it did little to erase the impression of someone who'd spent the night fighting something invisible.
He stepped out into the courtyard, the morning air biting against his skin with a cruel sharpness that mocked his fatigue. Around him, the Swordsman Corps was already alive with motion—students sparring, blades clashing, voices carrying sharp commands. To them, it was just another day. To him, the world felt irreversibly altered.
And then—
"Tatsuya."
The voice cut cleanly through the noise. Calm, grounded, yet impossible to ignore.
He turned, and there stood Tokagame Takashi. His imposing frame carried none of the usual warmth, his eyes unreadable as they locked onto Tatsuya. For a heartbeat, Tatsuya thought he might mention the fight. Might ask why his knuckles still bore faint bruises or why his stare looked so hollow.
But instead—
"The Master wants to speak with you."
The words struck harder than any insult Kizutoro had hurled the night before.
Tatsuya's breath caught in his chest. His stomach, still tender from the sickness, twisted sharply. The Master… wanted him?
Tokagame gave no explanation, no reassurance, no time for questions. Only the weight of his gaze, and the quiet certainty that whatever awaited Tatsuya next would not allow him to keep running from what he had become.
And with that, the morning pressed down on him like judgment itself.